


Good Boy

by septic_dr_citrus



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Begging, Coming In Pants, Dom Stacy, Drunkenness, Guilt, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Self-Hatred, Shame, Sub Chase, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wet Clothing, Wet Clothing Kink, Whiskey & Scotch, pillow humping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23610430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septic_dr_citrus/pseuds/septic_dr_citrus
Summary: Chase falls off the wagon once again and tries to find pleasure to distract from the shame. He just wants to feelgoodagain.
Relationships: Chase Brody/Stacy Brody (past)
Kudos: 27





	Good Boy

He was disgusting. He was burning hot, lonely, awful, nauseated…and very, very _drunk_. Perhaps it was the latter fact that made Chase care so little about the prior. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he had fallen off the wagon—or the second, or the third, or the twentieth. Maybe the others should have thought of that before leaving him alone in the house for a week, all hurrying off to their important conferences.

 _Can’t leave me unsupervised for a second, can you?_ A broken noise, half laugh, half sob, escaped him as he collapsed onto the couch, the open bottle in his hand sloshing and splashing a few ounces onto the cushions and his loose sweatpants. Wonderful. Fantastic. What a waste of good alcohol.

_What a waste of space I am._

_Stop it, stop it_.

The bottle was meant to chase those thoughts away, he reminded himself dazedly, tipping his head back for a deep gulp. That was all he wanted: to think of everything and feel nothing but that smothering haze. He had legitimately enjoyed the taste of this whiskey once; it was supposed to make him feel _good_.

All he wanted was to feel good.

As his free hand wiped halfheartedly at the whiskey that had splashed on his pants, his mind drifted. His ears buzzed.

Eyes half-lidded, he let his head fall back. Somewhere in the popcorn patterns on the ceiling, he could see Stacy’s sly smile, her cunning eyes, her coaxing whispers as he whined for her to grant him pleasure. He would practically be at her feet before she gave in, scratching manicured nails down the seams of his quivering thighs.

“ _You’re such a good boy_.”

Her hands were so much softer, so much lighter, more steady and sure. Lingering on those words, letting them turn and tumble in his mind like a dryer cycle, he gripped at his length, bunching the wet fabric of his sweatpants around it. Heaving a low, weighty breath, he rubbed clumsily, only distantly aware of how the whiskey stung as it soaked in. Let it burn if it got him hard faster.

Stacy would be repulsed to see him like this…He would have to beg so much more.

 _Please, please. I’ll be so good for you. I’ll do whatever you ask of me. Just touch me. Kiss me. Bite me. Make me yours. I love you, I need you, I want you. I’m your good boy. Such a good boy, look at me begging so nicely_.

She would have him on his knees for so long, unable to touch her, unable to do anything but watch as she had her own fun without him. He would be sweating, tearing up over the need to be touched, to join in, to get _something_ done and she would go about her business with infuriating grace. The way she pleasured herself for his viewing was like a slow dance—dipping, swirling, turning.

“ _Would you like to taste my fingers, sweetie boy?_ ” she asked once, offhand, her smirk deadly. He could never say yes fast enough.

 _Please, please_.

Grunting, he ground his palm down in rough circles, fingers tangling up in the sweatpants’ drawstrings. As he jerked he pulled them taut, huffing as the waistband cut into his groin. The bottle in his opposite hand splashed again, whiskey dribbling down his wrist and arm until he finally let go. It hit the couch and rolled, the last of its contents washing away to soak the throw pillow beside him. _Waste. Waste of space, waste of time, waste of anyone’s effort_.

The living room would be rank with the smell; the others would notice it as soon as they stepped in. They would holler at him with disappointment, frustration, pity.

Why should he care now? He just wanted to finish! Stifling a curse of angry desperation, he snatched the throw pillow and jammed it, half-folded, into his lap. The friction of the wet cotton burned as he bucked erratically against it, squeezing his eyes shut to grope for some illusion of it being Stacy’s thigh. She would have him bouncing on her lap like their toddler, much less innocent.

_Such a good boy. Please. Good, dirty boy._

_I’m good. I’m good, I deserve this. Good boy_.

His head was spinning with the stench of the alcohol and his own sweat, his stomach churning as he buried his length in the pillow’s damp folds. He might throw up before he came, he thought madly, only to let out a startled moan as it struck without warning.

The high was over too soon. As his heart rate slowed and the throbbing subsided, vague awareness crept through the fog and left him with…nothing. Nothing but a heavy head, sticky sweatpants and a stained throw pillow.

He had made a mess of it, as usual, he realized as he blinked exhaustedly down at the evidence. His vision swam.

He was disgusting.


End file.
